The Game's Extra: Azhriel Odyssey

Azhriel's gaze remained steady, untouched by the demon's threats or the bishop's silent malice. He didn't even move a hand toward Frostborne. He didn't need to.

"Zone," he whispered the words with a quiet cold.

The effect was instant.

Reality cracked.

The space around them distorted like shattered glass, bending and twisting. In a blink, the familiar forest vanished. Replaced by something far colder, far more unforgiving.

White.

Cold.

Thunder.

A thunderous, frozen world swallowed the battlefield whole.

The ground was covered in pristine frost, stretching endlessly in every direction. Icy winds howled like spirits, lashing at the cloaks of the intruders.

Overhead, the sky was cloaked in rolling storm clouds—thick and heavy. Bolts of lightning crackled across the sky, fierce and wild, screaming down like the wrath of a god.

And Azhriel stood at the center of it.

Not a word.

Not a single motion of fear.

He had activated his own Zone.

The demon froze, his hulking form shivering involuntarily and instinctively. "W-What… is this?" he muttered.

Beside him, the Bishop of the Dark Spades clenched his jaw, shadows twitching around his fingers. "That's impossible…" he breathed. "A student—no, a child—created a Domain?"

"No," Azhriel said softly, his voice echoing unnaturally through the ice-laden air. "This is just a Zone. Don't confuse it with something more."

The demon's eyes flared with anger. "Then I'll crush your little zone myself!"

He roared, his corrupted power bursting out as red and black demonic energy consumed his body. He slammed his foot into the ground but counterforce struck him instantly.

A violent surge of cold erupted beneath his feet.

Frost raced up his limbs, biting through the demonic fire like it was nothing. He stumbled, growling in pain, but forced himself forward.

The Bishop raised his staff, the mark of the Dark Spades glowing murky white. "Don't underestimate—"

Crack.

A bolt of thunder speared down from the heavens like a spear of judgment.

It struck the bishop directly, sending him sprawling to the ground. Smoke curled off his body as he coughed, face darkened by the scorch mark. He hissed in pain.

Azhriel finally took a step forward.

That single motion rippled through the Zone.

Ice bloomed where his foot touched. The air crackled.

"You know, I've seen what your kind does," he said, voice still calm. "What you did to the Prophet. What you did to the kins of Neorthus. For that, you shall pay."

"You're just a mere boy!" the demon roared, throwing his hands forward. The air behind him twisted, conjuring a blazing demonic sigil that flared with hellish energy.

"Hellfire Execution!"

A column of black and crimson fire surged forward, devouring the frost beneath it, screaming toward Azhriel.

He raised a single hand.

A translucent blue barrier snapped into place.

The fire crashed into it.

The impact shook the air, thunder roaring—but the flame did not pass.

It hissed, clawed, screeched—but could not break through.

Behind the barrier, Azhriel's expression didn't change.

The fire faded. The demon's mouth hung open.

The bishop began to rise again. "You think you're invincible? That's why you don't even sheath your sword, huh. "

"No. I just don't need to use my sword for you. Actually even this Zone wasn't needed. The only reason I am using it, is that I can kill your minions quickly with this."

Listening to Azhriel words. The demon howled in fury and charged.

He crossed half the distance in seconds—only to be struck by a jagged pillar of ice bursting from the ground.

It skewered through his leg, piercing through flesh and muscle, making him cry out in agony.

As he fell forward—

Boom.

A bolt of thunder hit him square in the chest.

The demon flew backward, smashing into the icy ground, twitching as smoke rose from his body.

The Bishop tried to run. He turned and made a dash toward the edge of the zone, hoping to break the field.

But it was too late.

Azhriel raised his hand.

Above them, the sky split apart.

Thunder, cold, lightning—all danced in unison.

And then it fell.

A single titanic bolt of ice and lightning slammed down from the heavens.

The Bishop screamed as it struck him.

And then there was silence.

The crackling of electricity.

The howl of wind.

The crunch of frost beneath boots.

Azhriel walked forward.

The demon tried to rise again, groaning—but Azhriel was already beside him.

He raised a hand again. A lance of pure ice formed in the air, crackling with tiny arcs of electricity. He stared down at the demon with those piercing azure eyes.

"You took lives that weren't yours to touch."

The lance shot forward.

And pierced the demon through the heart.

The demon stood frozen in place—literally.

Cracks split across his body, ice racing up from his chest and down to his arms and legs.

His mouth opened slightly, as if to scream or shout, but the cold stopped him. It silenced him before any sound could come out.

And just like that… a Demi-God, a being one step away from godhood, was dead.

Shattered.

Azhriel's eyes slowly turned, locking onto the Bishop who stood a short distance away. The man's face was pale, twisted in terror as he stared at the remains of the demon.

But Azhriel didn't go for him.

Not yet.

Instead, his cold gaze swept across the field, falling upon the many minions—the demons and Dark Spades that had followed their leaders proudly until now.

They stood frozen in place, trembling. Their bodies were stiff, some already cracking with frost, unable to even take a step back.

Azhriel walked forward—calmly, slowly.

"Why aren't you laughing now?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice low and cold, like death itself.

"Weren't you all grinning earlier?" he continued, "…smiling while slaughtering innocent children, laughing while burning cities?"

His words cut deeper than any blade.

None of them replied. They couldn't.

The freezing cold had seeped so deeply into their limbs and bones that even moving their mouths was painful. But even worse than the cold… was the fear.

They had stood beside Demi-Gods, had walked through divine pressure daily without flinching—but this?

This was something else.

This was terror.

This was despair.

This was death wearing the face of a boy.

Some of the weaker ones began to cry silently, frozen tears stuck to their faces.

"Nothing to say?" Azhriel asked again.

Still no answer.

"…Fine. Just die."

He lifted his hand—and snapped his fingers.

Absolute Zero.

Swoosh.

A wave of frost exploded out from him, tearing through the air like a crashing tsunami of ice and snow.

The ground cracked. The air screamed. The minions didn't even have time to gasp.

One moment they were there.

The next, they were frozen in place—solid, like statues of ice.

Unlike the innocent lives they had taken—those who cried and begged for mercy—these monsters had no chance.

They couldn't run.

They couldn't kneel.

They could only watch as the freezing cold crawled into their chests and hearts.

Snap.

Another soft snap of Azhriel's fingers.

The frozen minions shattered—shimmering into thousands of crystal-like dust particles, carried away by the wind.

They were gone. All of them.

Wiped out in an instant.

And still, Azhriel said nothing more. His gaze now turned, once again, to the trembling Bishop.

Cynthia's mouth fell open, but no words came out.

Who was this boy?

How could someone—who didn't even look like he'd turned twenty—wield such terrifying power? It wasn't just strength. It wasn't just magic. What she had seen... was something else entirely.

It was like witnessing a god dressed in human skin.

Then—

Crack.

The world around her shattered like glass.

The battlefield, the sky, the demon corpses—all of it splintered away into nothingness.

Color drained out of the world like spilled ink, until only white remained. Everything turned into a blank, empty canvas.

Quiet. Still.

A numb chill passed through her spine.

This… wasn't real.

No—it was, but it was something more than reality.

Then—

A voice, smooth and steady, broke the silence from behind her.

"Horrifying, isn't it?"

Cynthia spun around.

Standing just a few steps away was a woman—a tall figure with long silver hair that shimmered like frost under moonlight.

Sharp fox ears flicked slightly on top of her head, catching every sound. Her eyes were an empty, glowing white—pale and ancient, like she had seen more than time itself.

Two slightly long canines peeked out from under her upper lip when she spoke again, and three sleek fox tails moved lazily behind her, sweeping the floor like a predator too bored to hide anymore.

Her presence was overwhelming.

Not because of power… but because of familiarity.

Cynthia's breath caught in her throat.

She knew this woman.

Every movement, every gesture—it was like watching herself in the future. The same posture, the same gaze, the same air of quiet fire beneath the cold surface.

It was her.